


The Caretaker

by guineapiggie



Series: In Another Life [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Inspired by Music, Post-World War II, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 10:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14692041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineapiggie/pseuds/guineapiggie
Summary: Sometimes, though rarely, he would tell her stories about his life. He had a lovely voice that she could have listened to for hours, though some days it was hard to get more than two consecutive sentences out of him, and when he told her about the dog he used to have, she could picture how it would chase across the grass, black fur shining in the sunlight.He hardly spoke about the war, but when he did, it left her with images that she dreamt of for weeks – she never told him that, of course. If he knew how much those stories scared her, he would have stopped telling them, and she wanted to hear them, despite everything.There was also a woman, at the fringes of all his stories, but he never spoke her name or told her what exactly had happened to her, to them, and she knew not to ask.





	The Caretaker

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired very, very much by ["The Caretaker"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0L1jDJRAXqM) and ["He Stopped Loving Her Today"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwrWGU8aVPw) \- so please know that these are songs about an old man at the very end of his life.

Rey supposes people would have talked about how much time she spent in a graveyard as a young girl. But she didn’t have those, not really, or at least she doesn’t think they cared about her as a person enough to talk about how much time she spent in a graveyard.

And the thing is, there really wasn’t anything morbid about it. She stayed away from the funerals, out of respect, and because it’s sad and weird to think about these dead strangers. They were not why she came; her spots were by the old graves, where the names are slowly fading from the headstones and the weight of death isn’t so heavy anymore.

It’s just a nice place, with beautiful old trees in whose shade she sat down to read on hot summer days, and the bushes and hedges that whisper in the breeze. You can hardly hear the cars if you go in far enough, and she doesn’t think the people who came to visit the graves ever minded her presence, either. The caretaker enjoyed it, even. She sometimes thought he was the only one who did.

She watched him go about his day while she sat underneath the old elm tree with a book, saw him trimming the hedges with a rusty old pair of hedge shears, looking after the flowers, raking the leaves; she remembers how the autumn sun would catch in the silver in his dark hair then. They’d talk about this and that, nothing in particular; it stuck with her though because he was the only one who didn’t speak to her like she was a child. Sometimes, though rarely, he would tell her stories about his past. He had a lovely voice that she could have listened to for hours, though some days it was hard to get more than two consecutive sentences out of him, and when he told her about the dog he used to have, she could picture how it would chase across the grass, black fur shining in the sunlight.

He hardly spoke about the war, but when he did, it left her with images that she dreamt of for weeks – she never told him that, of course. If he knew how much those stories scared her, he would have stopped telling them, and she wanted to hear them, despite everything.

There was also a woman, at the fringes of all his stories, but he never spoke her name or told her what exactly had happened to her, to them, and she somehow knew it was better not to ask. Whenever one of his stories was about to touch upon the subject, he’d fall silent, often said he’d forgotten the rest. She didn’t think he’d ever forgotten a thing in his life – he knew her favourite colour and remembered that she said she liked a certain poem; he’d got her that writer’s works for her birthday, a date she couldn’t remember ever mentioning to him.

Sometimes, he’d cook for her, in his tiny house by the edge of the graveyard, and she’d always marvel at how empty it was – a bed, a drawer, a small wardrobe, a kitchen, a table and two chairs, and a handful of books on a shelf. Most other people she knew who’d been to war put up pictures, but there were none in his home. When she asked him he just shrugged and said he’d rather look out at a more peaceful world.

She’s never again met a person with sadness in their eyes the way it sat in his, and yet he didn’t seem _unhappy._ He had always seemed content in his work, as at peace with himself as someone like him could be, she supposes.

He never looked like a gardener to her, but he looked pleased to be one.

.

“Why are you working for the dead?” she’d asked him when they’d met, when she was still too young to understand who would pay an old man to keep a graveyard tidy, and he’d thrown her his sad, calm smile and answered:

“Hiding from the world, like you,” and another time, the next winter, he said: “Paying back old debts.”

She doesn’t think she really understood what he meant by that until long after he was gone.

 .

“Do you want to be buried here?” she asked once, glancing at a funeral party across the hedges. “I mean, don’t you think people should be buried at home?”

“Sometimes home is not a place you can go back to,” he said slowly, blinking into the setting sun. “I don’t think it really matters where you’re buried, Rey. I was going to be buried in France somewhere once, then Germany. Wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“You’d be buried at your workplace, though,” she pointed out with a grin. “Do you want that?”

He smiled faintly and returned to the bush he was trimming. “I wouldn’t mind. They should put me somewhere behind my house, maybe. That’s where I buried my dog.”

 .

Looking back, she supposes it _was_ morbid, all that time she spent on a graveyard.

 .

She had come to visit him that day, a warm, breezy day at the end of summer. Rey had seen the caretaker in a suit once or twice, he used to go to church every other Sunday; but she wasn’t used to the sight, nor to the faint smile on his face without the life and the sadness in it.

She found a small stack of letters in the drawer by his bed, folded and unfolded countless times, the paper worn thin and the ink faded at the margins. And there was a picture, too, of a young woman in an army shirt with a chequered scarf tied into her dark hair. Rey slipped the picture into the breast pocket of his suit, and put the letters into his hands because they looked strangely empty to her when she had only ever known him holding tools.

The place behind the house was a good choice, it was where the sun first touched in the morning, and she caught herself wondering if he’d known that. The priest said a few words and read from the bible for a little while, and she helped cover up the grave because one of the boys hired to do it had somewhere to be.

It was her who planted flowers for the spring – none near the head, though. He’d said to do that sometimes, she remembers.

“God’ll put some there, too,” he said, “for those he’s forgiven, at least.”

The next spring, the seeds had spread far across the lawn, little white flowers everywhere, and a part of her hopes he could see that from somewhere.

 .

Someone must have ordered a gravestone because one appeared at some point, which was lucky because Rey wouldn’t have the first idea how to do any of that. It said his name on it, _Cpt._ _Cassian Jeron Andor,_ she’d never known about the last two, and his birth and his death, just the years. _1911 – 1975._ She’d always thought him much older than that.

She put a small pebble next to the headstone the day it was put up; she couldn’t engrave the stone so she used a pen to write Kay’s name on it, because she thought if he wanted to be buried with the dog people should see it was there. (She’d have put the girl’s name, too, but she’d have had to read his letters for that and she remembered you’re not supposed to read people’s mail, especially not when they’re dead, and anyway, it was too late now because her signature was underneath the white flowers with him.)

.

The rain always washes the letters off after a while and she keeps forgetting to buy a waterproof pen, but that’s not so bad. She’s still there to retrace the name.


End file.
